


Poetic License

by slashmania



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I wrote this instead of an essay, I wrote this instead of studying, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, stupid finals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-05 04:33:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14609409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmania/pseuds/slashmania
Summary: Obviously, Eames is well read.





	1. The apparition of these faces in a crowd

**Author's Note:**

> ...yeah, I don't know where this is going. I had the first idea at the beginning of the month, but I didn't have the time to write it. Correction, I still don't have the time to write it. I'm just too stressed to write anything else.

_ The apparition of these faces in a crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough. _

\- "In a Station of the Metro" by Ezra Pound  


* * *

Arthur and Eames sat side by side on a bench, watching the projections pass them on the train station platform.

The point man looked from person to person, noticing what Eames brought him down in the dream to see, but not saying anything yet. He’d wait for Eames to start.

“Sometimes I like to come here after jobs with heavy forging.”

The faces were familiar. Arthur had seen each one during recent jobs with Eames— the slouching man in a windbreaker, the heavyset woman carrying her groceries, and so many more were Eames’s most recent forgeries.

“I sit here and watch them go by,” Eames said, still watching them pass. “Little pieces of the identities I had to adopt for work, only separate from me now. They’re figures waiting for a train.”

“...this isn’t going to lead to mass suicide is it?” Arthur was sincerely hoping that there wasn’t going to be a mass suicide because he’d already spotted two of Eames’s child forgeries.

Eames looked away from the faces in the crowd and missed the arrival of the train so he could smile fondly at Arthur. He reached for the other man’s hand, ready to reassure him.

“No, Arthur. Whenever I enter this setting my most recent forges populate the space. No dying. No suicide. They’re just taking a trip and freeing up some room on my metro station dreamscape.”

Arthur tried to imagine what that would look like. Eames had asked for a head start, but promised Arthur that he had something important to show him. That he'd reveal the mysteries of his forgery just for him.

Arthur looked over at the train in time to see the last of the projections, Eames’s forgeries, enter the train. Soon the doors closed, the train departed and the platform was empty except for the two dream workers.


	2. Ourself behind ourself, concealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I agree," Arthur said, before rolling his eyes and continuing any way. " I agree with both things, but that thing you said before about it really being Cobb? That the shade is really just Cobb haunting himself...that's pretty deep."
> 
> Since there was no trace of condescension in that compliment, Eames took it with pride. He'd hoard it with other valuable things that Arthur has said over the years. He could alphabetize them or catalog them with dates, times, and descriptions so he'd always recall the context. He felt that it was something Arthur would approve of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been having a lot of anxiety lately and thought I'd finally give an unofficial update if I wasn't going to sleep anyway. I really only had two ideas for this story, but I've read lots of poetry that I could make connections to Arthur, Eames, or various themes from Inception.
> 
> This is based off of a Dickinson poem and depending on what editions are read the numbers of the poems could be different, so if anyone wants to read the entire thing just type out the first line I mention at the very beginning of the chapter.
> 
> And I was drinking wine while I wrote this, so sorry for errors and too much emphasis and what the wine tasted like (mine really did have a sort of oak, blackberry, vanilla thing going on)
> 
> Fun fact: I just put the text through that thing that analyzes which famous author you write like and got Anne Rice. That's a change of pace from my usual (for full stories I'm Agatha Christie, for shorter segments I'm everything from Stephen King to David Foster Wallace...or genre-wise I'm a big pile of mystery and science fiction.

_One need not be a Chamber- to be Haunted-_

_One need not be a House-_

_-_ Emily Dickinson

* * *

Sometimes they spoke of dark things. Sometimes they spoke of Mal.

Conversations like that came up very once in awhile; usually after a long job, more frequently after Robert Fischer's inception.

Eames could almost always count on a conversation that circled around Mal, the Mal that Dominic Cobb had left trapped in his subconscious because of his guilt. The shade who haunted the extractor and went after Arthur as well.

Of all the things they had collectively experienced in their time as dreamsharers a shade was the most insidious.

Arthur had comfortably slouched against the kitchen counter. Their rented place was cozy, furnished, and neat. Eames would sort of miss it when they left in the morning- another job well done, another temporary living space left behind without fingerprints or other forms of evidence tying them to their latest extraction.

Eames was holding a half-empty chipped wineglass. He was topping off Arthur's before pouring what remained of the bottle into his own glass. He put the empty bottle on the counter and gently placed the full wineglass within Arthur's reach, ready to listen to another of Arthur's stories concerning the shade of the once _lovely_ Mrs. Cobb.

"Thanks," Arthur said, not picking up the glass yet, but admiring the way the light was reflected off the glass, how it illuminated the wine it held. "What was I saying?" He asked himself as he began retracing his mental steps. He was likely stumbling after two hefty glasses on a nearly empty stomach.

"The real Mal was lovely. That's a good place to start," Eames added before taking another sip from his glass just to enjoy the flavor. It was a nice Merlot, so while Arthur took a second finding his place in the story, Eames tried to guess the ratio of oak to whatever the sweetness was in the wine. Maybe some vanilla?

"Yes, thank you," Arthur said, still slouching against the counter, arms crossed against his chest. The relaxed pose and closed position of his arms seemed to contradict. "She really was lovely. But that's what made Cobb's shade of her so terrifying. Cobb, crazy as he is, remembered every little detail about her appearance. Everything."

"The guilt warped her though," Eames commented, the wine on his tongue tasting less sweet the more he thought about the past stories Arthur told. "Shot out your knee, naughty little shade."

Arthur was nodding, even though he did reach down to touch his knee. Like he was remembering that pain. He shifted uncomfortably and stopped touching his undamaged knee. It really was best to not let the phantom pain of dream injuries hang on longer than necessary.

"Yeah, but what you said before? That made sense. The Mal who ruined me and Cobb's plans. The Mal who coolly mentioned that _pain is in the mind_ before shooting me. That's not the real Mal. That's just Cobb. Cobb's subconscious in a killer dress..."

Arthur frowned over that last thought and then looked at Eames. "What does that say about Cobb?"

Eames was ready to play junior psychologist. "Dominic Cobb had a very attractive, lovely wife. Dominic Cobb also felt very guilty for her suicide. Its not unusual to experience strong emotions like that after a loved one dies. Its probably worse if that loved one attempts to frame you for murder before they take that jump, so we still have to keep it in mind. Cobb recalling what Mal would wear shouldn't say much about Cobb or his sense of fashion, but between you and me, I doubt that Cobb could pull off the dress you've described."

"I agree," Arthur said, before rolling his eyes and continuing any way. " I agree with both things, but that thing you said before about it really being Cobb? That the shade is really just Cobb haunting himself...that's pretty deep."

Since there was no trace of condescension in that compliment, Eames took it with pride. He'd hoard it with other valuable things that Arthur has said over the years. He could alphabetize them or catalog them with dates, times, and descriptions so he'd always recall the context. He felt that it was something Arthur would approve of.

He was starting to remember the argument he'd made on this subject. "The shade he'd created of Mal became much more terrifying than the real woman. Living and breathing she was safer than what Cobb's subconscious cooked up. As a dead but still lively memory, the shade could follow after Cobb like a ghost through the halls of his mind."

"Even if he built a maze," Arthur added. "She'd know it in a second."

"Because she's him. She is him tormenting himself and you." Words were tripping out of Eames's mouth before he had time to consider what they sounded like.

"You can't hide things like that from yourself. That's why I had to be the dreamer and learn the mazes other architects built for our jobs. Cobb didn't want Mal to know. But she always found a way in, even if I took special measures to prevent it."

This definitely caught Eames's interest. "Like what?"

Arthur shrugged. "More complex mazes with a few of my own personal touches. Dead ends, Penrose Steps, lots and lots of locks. Oh, and guns. Cobb never wanted to shoot her. Never ever. He hated the idea of killing the shade in the dream, even when she did some pretty screwed up things during a job."

Then Arthur reached for his wineglass and paused to take a drink. Then he stared at the contents of his glass as if he was trying to find something. He held up the glass, a gesture of inquiry to Eames. "This actually isn't that bad for something we found at the last second. I think I taste something like...something like blackberry? What did you think?"

Eames couldn't really recall. His thoughts on the wine had been replaced by his thoughts on the dead. He'd have to believe Arthur when he said that the real Mal had been lovely and count himself lucky that he'd never had a chance to run into her as she prowled the dreamscapes after Cobb, and sometimes after Arthur, and if he believed Ariadne, Robert Fischer too. Eames thankfully wouldn't have to borrow the revolver.

In reality he could leave one on the nightstand to deal with intruders. He'd pull another revolver out of thin air if he were dreaming.

And he'd choose a grenade launcher if he wanted to dream bigger.


End file.
